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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217797">I'll Be Your Shelter</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/facemewest/pseuds/facemewest'>facemewest</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:08:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,634</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217797</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/facemewest/pseuds/facemewest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Morgan is a young outlaw following in the footsteps of his departed father and found family, Dutch van der Linde and friends. Though he's been raised by the best bandits and thieves for years, having turned eighteen it's time to make a proper name for himself in the ever expanding West like the rest of them have. A few minor hiccups aside, all seems to be going as planned   —   until he meets  <b>her</b>.   Pretty as a rose and sweet as honeycomb, soon the young outlaw finds himself enraptured by possibilities of a different sort of life.<br/></p><div class="center">
  <p>Will he continue down the stepping stones laid out by those who've come before him or will he carve a new path for himself? Is fate kind to those who break its' chains? Only time will reveal the answers. . . but perhaps it's already  <b>too late</b>.</p>
</div>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bessie Matthews/Hosea Matthews, Eliza/Arthur Morgan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I'll Be Your Shelter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>His Morgan stubbornness lingers a fleeting moment longer before he relents to her fussing with a sigh. He can see himself reflected in her vision. The corners of her mouth lift in quiet triumph, the faintest sliver of teeth shown between thin lips. Bessie wasn't his mother but sometimes from the tenderness of the looks she gave him, he could fall into the feeling that she was — certainly a motherly figure at the very least.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>      Frustration is a match struck, burning a fiery path up the back of his neck, catching alight upon ear tops and red hot. Arthur Morgan does his best to keep his chin tucked low, gaze averted from the others of the small camp as he follows on foot a fair distance behind Dutch and Hosea. It hadn't been a <b>bad day</b>, per se. The job the three of them had embarked upon earlier that morning had been completed after all, but the finesses of it   <i>as Dutch had put it</i>   left much still to be desired. The veiled words of abashment still rattled around in Arthur's skull, his fouled mood spilled across his features despite his best attempts at hiding it beneath the brim of his hat. The last thing the young man wanted to do was disappoint his forged father figure, the man who took him in when he had nothing left in the world and gave him some semblance of a home.</p><p>      Hosea had been much kinder on their slow ride back to camp, bright smiles and lively chatter for having pulled off the robbery regardless of the slip Arthur had made.    <i>'You won the fight, didn't you, Arthur? Don't look so glum.'</i>   That was easier said than done, however, especially with the weight Dutch's words had already imparted upon him.</p><p>      Consumed with such negative introspection, it isn't until Arthur feels small hands grabbing his arm does he notice the woman halting him solid in his walk towards his tent. Bessie Matthews is all of five feet and hardly much more but in this moment her presence seems to tower over the young man as if she's taller than he is, an incredibly frightful feat. Arthur can feel the heat of frustration bleed away into tinged embarrassment as she squints against the sun to inspect the bruises blossoming beneath his hat.   <i>So much for keeping the damage hidden.</i>   Arthur shifts his eyes away from the worried expression budding across her features, clearing his throat to try and speak but she's quicker than he and her tone leaves little room for him to make excuses.</p><p>      "And just <i>what</i> did you get yourself into this time?" Her voice is sharp but her eyes soften as she reaches for his hat, lifting it off his mop of mussed hair to get a better look in the sunlight overhead.</p><p>      Arthur dares to bite the inside of his cheek rather than speak, gaze still averted but Bessie was having none of him 'playing dumb' today. With the hand unoccupied by his hat, she reaches for his chin, gentle in her hold as she tilts his face down properly towards hers. His Morgan stubbornness lingers a fleeting moment longer before he relents to her fussing with a sigh, true blues clashed against earthen green as their eyes meet. He can see himself reflected in her vision, looking far more pitiful than he deserved to. The corners of her mouth lift in quiet triumph, the faintest sliver of teeth shown between thin lips. Bessie wasn't his mother but sometimes from the tenderness of the looks she gave him, he could fall into the feeling that she was — certainly a motherly figure at the very least.</p><p>      "It ain't as bad as it looks." Arthur begins, tentative with his explanation as her brow begins to crease. "Should'a seen the other guy."</p><p>      His words are all bluster, the dulled throbbing of his cheek suddenly renewed as he properly speaks for the first time in a few hours. Dutch and Hosea had allowed his sullen silence but not Bessie. The arching triumph of her mouth falls as quickly as it had risen, a pointed glare in the direction of the other two men who had continued on their way, brief enough that had Arthur blinked he might have missed it. Her tongue snaps against the roof of her mouth, a chiding sound as she takes hold once more of Arthur's sleeve to lead him in the direction of the small table and chairs the gang played dominoes at. Arthur obliges when she pulls him along to one of the seats, her flourishing stern look enough to further silence any willful defiance he might have been tempted to present.</p><p>      "It's always you." Arthur says nothing to her comment, not entirely certain Bessie expects a response from him, a hand settled upon his hat as she places it upon the table beside him. He contemplates putting it back on but Bessie turns on her heel with a short command that leaves him motionless beyond the rise and fall of his chest with breath. "Don't move, I'll be right back."</p><p>      Were the circumstances better, he might have given a cheeky  <i>'yes ma'am,'</i>  but even he knows when not to press his luck with her.</p><p>      The previous thoughts of self deprecation rattle once more in the wake of fleeting Bessie's absence, the fingers of his right hand rested upon his hat fiddling with the worn brim. Of course Bessie meant well with her nurturing nature but Arthur had never quite been good at receiving it without some makeshift complaint. Kindness was akin to coddling in the life of an outlaw. More than once his real father had reminded him of that when he'd only been a boy, clutched tight to his mothers skirts where ever she moved about. Reaffirmed again by Dutch van der Linde in his early teens when he'd been taken in by him. Softness became weakness, tenderness began to ache. Thus was the life of an outlaw. Arthur sighs heavily, chest emptied with forward slopped shoulders. There was simply no proper way to tell Bessie she needn't go to all the trouble of fretting as she was.</p><p>     She wouldn't listen anyway.</p><p>      As an angel called by name, she returns with a cloth and bottle in hand, tensity rested upon the bridge of her nose. She places the items upon the wooden table top, turning to pull a chair to set in front of Arthur after she does. Worn blue skirts are tucked neatly so that she may take her place across from him, a pat against his knee in quiet command for him to make her some room as she sits. He watches her tentatively as she uncorks the liquor stop, a corner of the cloth tucked into the opening to dampen it. Arthur can feel himself wince before she's through, the memory alone of many wounds cleaned enough to conjure the burn of alcohol. Bessie does not miss the action he tries to hide, the left corner of her mouth lifted in some sort of benign amusement.</p><p>      "Oh, none of that now! I've not even started to clean you up yet." She admonishes, motherly tone somehow natural for a woman who was mother to none.</p><p>      ". . . Can I get a drink of that?" Arthur ventures when she places the bottle back on the table, a pause in the motion of her hand reaching out to his face. He was only half joking.</p><p>      "When I'm finished with it," Bessie postulates, closing the distance as punctuation to the promise, "Now no more fussing."</p><p>      She presses the cloth beneath his right eye without further halt and Arthur bites his tongue to keep from cursing at the pain. He hadn't the chance to get a proper look at himself, perhaps it was worse than he'd originally thought. Yet his attempt to reign in the sounds of smarting from his lips fails him as she carries on, dragging the cloth up to the bridge of his nose. If it <b>wasn't</b> broken, he'd be surprised, his cutting exclamation of  <i>'ow, shit!'</i>  filling the silence between them. Bessie's lips purse unpleasantly but her touch tempers in an attempt to keep from hurting him.</p><p>      "I swear it, I'll cuff those two around the collar if they let this happen again." Once more Arthur feels as if her words are less for him and more for herself, an affirmation of sorts spoken from a frustration he knows too well himself.</p><p>      A few seconds pass before Arthur ventures to ease the vexation she lets bloom across her face as she continues to work. "It ain't their fault, I should'a been paying better attention."</p><p>      Bessie snorts, unamused by his placating explanation but says nothing more. The two carry on in relative silence, her working on his fist battered features and him letting expletives slip when he cannot hold them in. There's familiarity in this moment of compassion, though Arthur has traded scrapped knees for broken noses as the moment's aged. He shuts his eyes, reminiscing to himself. There were times he wished to go back to those old days, as difficult as they had been for him, to when he was younger and could bask in the naivety of then. A time before he knew what fate had planned for him. The hand still rested on his hat pick up fiddling with it again, the leather a texture he would never forget. As much of a <b>good riddance</b> Lyle's death had been, parts of him also even yearned for him. Secret places inside of himself that not even his closest of made kin could get in.</p><p>      The firm squeeze of his free hand brings Arthur rushing back to the present, blue eyes peeled open to set upon the comforting touch. Bessie lingers in her hold, now bloodied cloth kept tucked in her other hand. The smile that graces her lips is more genuine than before, a pat added to the affection given. He might have been young, too young to understand women but he did know that Hosea Matthews was one lucky man. Arthur manages the faintest crack of a smile of his own, dipping his head before lifting his hat to rest it back to his head as she releases his hand. Sun toned cheeks rosy as he offers his thanks, fingers danced guardedly over the wooden table, halting just shy of the bottle still uncorked. Bessie gives a silent nod and Arthur needs no more encouragement, taking hold of the neck and pulling it towards himself.</p><p>      "Thank you, Mrs. Matthews." Arthur enounces with a swift and healthy drink, a mindful eye as Bessie rises from her seat and rights her skirts.</p><p>      "Behave yourself, Mr. Morgan. . . and do get some rest, if you would." She encourages, parting off to the communal area of the camp.</p><p>      He nods, lifting himself from his own seat to head off in the direction of his tent once more. She was right, rest soundly exactly like what he needed after the day he'd had and he had every intention of doing so. Yet Arthur hardly makes it further than a few yards towards his destination before he hears the call of his name. If he'd winced at the cleaning, his reaction now was a jolt down the spine. He turns towards the sound of his name, watching as Dutch makes his way towards him. Sour faced, he takes another swift swig, bracing himself for whatever this encounter was to be as Dutch comes to stand alongside him. In earnest, he had hoped to go the rest of the day without company besides the bottle in his hand; to drink himself into a stupor and forget his worries until the following day where he could do it all over again. Chance had other plans.</p><p>      "How're you feeling, son?" Perhaps Dutch meant to sound sympathetic, for his words to ease the tensity still held within the younger mans shoulders but it does little to alleviate the weight. If anything, it adds more burden to bear.</p><p>      "Just fine." Arthur offers, eyes kept wary of meeting his gaze.</p><p>     "Mrs. Matthews always is soft on you, isn't she? As if you're still the boy she met all those years ago." There's a sharpness to the smile cutting across his lips, Arthur chooses to ignore it. Dutch claps a hand hard against his shoulder, familial in gesture but lacking the depth of warmth Arthur supposes it's supposed to bring him. "But you're a man now, like the rest of us! I know you've grown into a fine young fellow, capable of taking care of himself. Don't let today's little mishap let you forget that. You're much more than that."</p><p>      Intent versus impact, whatever it was, it made Arthur feel small and less like the man Dutch said he was. He didn't need the other man to tell him that what Bessie had done was fruitless, he already knew that. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from telling Dutch as such, to argue that it wouldn't have mattered if he'd denied her attention because she would have forced him to sit down and let her have her way regardless. It was about respect that he'd obliged with so little resistance, as any of them would have. . . right?</p><p>      Arthur finally meets Dutch's unwavering gaze, takes from his words what he will, the frustration of disappointment growing more profound. Because that's what Dutch was, wasn't he? Disappointed in him. He owed him everything and yet he offered him so little in return. He had attempted to raise Arthur into a man of great standing and he was falling short. His own smile is tight, painfully forced, a nodding of understanding all he can seem to produce with the words he wishes to speak dying on his tongue. Dutch doesn't seem to mind the silence, if anything his smile turns into a broad grin. He squeezes firmly where his hand stays rested, rigid on Arthur's shoulder.</p><p>      "Coddled boys become spoiled men, Arthur. I only wish the best for you, son." Acidic, corrosive, his words eat away at the thin layer of confidence shrouding Arthur.</p><p>      He had never been a person with much of it to begin with, built up sometimes but always to come crumbling down. Perhaps Dutch was far beyond disappointed, putting it into carefully curated words like those of the books he read. Hidden beneath beautifully poignant prose, so as not to hurt a simpleton such as him as much as he could. The bottle in Arthur's grasp grows heavier, as if encouraging him to lighten it by drinking. </p><p>      ". . . I know." He sucks at the back of his teeth, a swig taken to keep himself from further speaking and hopefully to catch the beginnings of a buzz.</p><p>      His gaze averts, towards the direction of his tent, swift before falling back upon the elder man. Dutch takes note of it, of course he does, his hand falling way from the bow of Arthur's shoulder. For a moment all is silent between them and Arthur wonders if he's messed up more than he already has that day but before he can muster the gall to ask Dutch seems to relent. The grin eases, falling back into the softer arching of a smile, kindness nearly reaching his eyes.</p><p>      "Get some rest, tomorrow is a new day."</p><p>      It's Arthur's turn to part ways with little more than a nod, seeking reprieve behind sheep hide tenting with brisk steps in reprieves direction. If anyone had heard the two of them talking, they say nothing, not even so much as sparing a glance the young man's way and Arthur is thankful for it. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped again. With one hand tilting back the liquor, the other pushing at the flaps, he enters his tent and a tightness in his chest relents for the first time in what feels like hours. . . or perhaps it's the alcohol taking effect. Either way Arthur is glad for it, all but throwing himself upon his cot as he kicks dirtied boots to the ground. If he didn't wake up until the next afternoon, it would still be too soon.</p>
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